Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

1. Rico

If you can’t have it all, you might as well have sunshine, a life you chose, and a cool, tiny microphone.

I gaze out at the San Juan Bay from Parque de las Palomas with my tourist group or—as I translate for the patrons—the much less romantic-sounding, Pigeon Park. True to the small plaza’s name, hundreds of pigeons fly in and out, perch on the vine-threaded trees, and cover the grounds.

Amid the tourists’ attempts to capture the sea view on their cameras while dodging the hordes of birds, I have to compete for attention. I test my little mic that connects to their nifty earsets and search through my mental notes.

As I walk closer to the overlook railing, a strong gust of wind cools my back and flaps the colorful ribbons that hang from tree branches. Ready to continue my enthralling tour, I gesture to an easily missed sculpture of bronze shoes.

Something collides with the back of my head. I duck too late as I register that it’s something alive and feathered.

Thankfully, only the two preteens in the group notice. They snicker and go back to their phone screens.

Rubbing the possible bruise, I search out the winged culprit. He’s a little ruffled, but otherwise okay. The tour guide life can be rife with peril, so I do my best to ensure no animals are harmed during a Morales Tours booking.

Another gust lifts several wide-brimmed hats. I turn to face the insistent air current, squinting at the sun.

Experience has taught me that if the winds of change are going to smack a pigeon into the back of my head, a tropical sea breeze is preferable to a Manhattan gale.

The first time, I was freezing and unaware of my impending life transition. On today’s tour stop, I’m lucky this is the only close encounter with flying fowl.

The pigeon catches flight on the breeze that blew it in, and I want to shout into the void that I may be a little aimless, but I’m doing perfectly fine. Okay—maybe. Not ideal, but I’m working on it.

I’m in no need of symbolic, life-changing winds.

After I recite my little tour spiel for this stop, the group walks around the sunny courtyard nestled against a city wall. I adjust my baseball cap and smooth down my hurriedly buttoned shirt. I’m reminded that this morning was not the most stellar example of me “working” on my current aimless status.

You know it’s not going well when your grandmother has to wake you up. “ Federico Degetau Morales Rivera! You better be glad I need to save my knees from these stairs and won’t be going up there to drag your fondillo out of bed!”

Ah, the dulcet tones of my sweet Abuela—using my full name for effect, no less. There is no age limit for a threatening wake-up call from your Puerto Rican grandma, but once you’re over thirty, they seem to get more savage—both the wake-up calls and the grandmas.

“?Ya va, Abuela!” I let her know I was awake before the chancla , flying flip-flop and matriarchs’ weapon of choice, sailed up the stairs on a mission to inflict bodily harm.

“It’s almost ten, manganzón!” And yet, the retro, red-numbered alarm clock on the nightstand in the tiny room in her house I now call temporary-turned-indefinite home stated the precise time was 8:52 am.

Okay, so not ten, but still, she was right. I was late.

I dressed in no time; a perk of having left my finance career behind. A tour guide has no need for a power suit and necktie. Racing down the stairs, I braced for the rest of Abuela’s loving scolding.

Julia beat her to it as I grabbed some breakfast. “Who are you, and where is Rico, the Workaholic Wall Street Big Shot?”

Older sisters, mano .

“Actually, I always preferred The To-Die-For Tycoon,” I chimed in reply while indulgently wiping some powdered sugar from my chin, further inciting Julia’s eye-roll. A doughy mallorca— breakfast of recovering Type A champions.

Honestly, I don’t recognize myself—oversleeping on a twin bed and heading to tour bookings with a face full of sugar. Oh, how the Bronx-success-story mighty have fallen.

Julia huffed. “You know, there is a happy medium between working yourself into the ground like you were doing and”— she eyed me as I hopped on one leg and shoved a shoe on—“whatever you’ve got going on now.”

“It’s called searching for a life of true purpose.”

“It’s called setting an actual alarm.”

I silently mocked her know-it-all tone as any self-respecting younger sibling would do. But when Julia held my gaze, I recognized too well the worry in her eyes. The one we didn’t want Abuela to see.

“I’m getting it done. Okay, Juli? Morales Tours. We’ve got this.”

She nodded slowly. “Don’t forget your water bottle, To-Die-For Tycoon.”

Always more forgiving once I ingest her food, Abuela walked over to me from the stove and added a soft cheek-slap for good measure. “Bah, my Rico’s just finding his way.”

I smiled at my number-one supporter and leaned to peck a kiss on her cheek and Julia’s before heading out the door. Abuela has her domestic-goddess duties, Julia has the admin side to manage, and I have tourists to charm.

Now, I may be a little life-adrift, but I’m nothing if not professional. Tour patrons would never guess I was sound asleep twenty minutes before we met—not with all the tailor-made enthusiasm I impart to make them feel as if they’re cool locals of this five-hundred-year-old city.

A tourist calls me back to the present with a question about the dozens of square holes carved into the wall to house pigeons. I switch on the same smile I once wielded in boardrooms and dazzle them with obscure, historical fun-facts.

“Yankees fan, huh?” One of the several octogenarians in the group points at my baseball cap. He’s mostly kept quiet during the tour, but his spiffy fanny pack makes him stand out. I grin and nod.

“A Boricua Bleacher Creature?”

Now he really has my attention with the double moniker—Puerto Rican and Yanks fan. “Wepa. You know it. Technically, a Bronxite-Boricua.”

“You’re far away from The House that Jeter Built.”

“Ouch, man. Yes. This island has always been home, though.” I might’ve grown up only visiting summers, but it’s always been so.

I reply to a sweet lady’s question about the small chapel right next to the park. I throw in a cliff-notes version of how, according to legend, it was built there to block the dead-end road after a horseback rider galloped right off it but was miraculously saved. Everybody collectively “wow”s as they should.

“Have you always been in the tours business?” my fanny-pack friend asks.

“Uh, yes and no. My grandpa started giving historical tours. I’ve roamed these streets handing out flyers for as long as I can remember.”

“So you’re following in his footsteps, then?”

I clear my throat as his question hits a soft spot. “Haven’t always, but trying to.”

He smiles, satisfied, and heads over to buy a pouch of corn feed for the pigeons, joining the group and its enthusiastically varied feeding techniques.

Grandpa—Abuelo Lolo—may he rest in peace. He loved this tour spot. His eyes shone so proudly when he shared the history of our island; it lit that flame in me. I’ve been an amateur historian ever since—history and genealogical society memberships and all. Basically, I’m one step away from joining a colonial reenactment.

After another great walking tour, the group takes their time shopping. Glancing at my phone, I’m surprised to see I’ve missed several calls from the same international number. The number pops up again. I answer, and a voice I vaguely recall greets me.

“?Aló? ?Rico, mi hermano !” Quickly placing the Spanish accent, I know this is Professor Santiago Navarro. We’ve met virtually through several Hispanic genealogical association meetings, so I return his warm greeting.

He doesn’t waste time. “Listen, sorry to blow up your phone, but I would say this is urgent, vale ? You know Profesora Martín and that research assistance project we’ve been emailing about?”

“Yeah.” I haven’t heard from Navarro in a while, but we’d been going back and forth about this reputable genealogy researcher/lecturer from Salamanca, Spain, who might need help locating records in Puerto Rico.

“Her flight arrives in San Juan in an hour.”

I do a double-take. “I’m sorry, cómo fue ?” My thoughts race as I consider the unexpectedly immediate task of hosting and genealogical sleuthing with this Spanish stranger. I’m not excited about the prospect—no matter how distinguished she’s said to be.

Navarro explains, “ Lo siento, there has been some communication breakdown. La profesora asked me to reach out to someone on the island, but her plans were not set yet. I have been cut off from any signal for a couple of weeks on a research expedition in Perú . The next time I opened my inbox, she informed me that the funds had been approved and that she was jumping on the next flight to Puerto Rico. You will find out she is very . . . proactiva .”

“Okay . . .” Do I overhaul my tour schedule simply because of a professor who could not deign to communicate directly or was too gung-ho to plan ahead for this research visit? It doesn’t change the fact that we could use the money from this project. And, who knows, maybe working with an established academic could up my cred in genealogy circles and lead to more of this work I’m passionate about.

I guess I’m partnering with la profesora .

“Rico?”

“Fine, just email me her flight details, and I’ll be there.”

As soon as I hang up with Navarro, I dial Mariana. Julia may be the backstage brains of this small tours and destination events operation, but baby sister also helps keep it going with her marketing and visual creative prowess. And she’s going to have to double as a tour guide for the time being.

“Look, I’ll have Julia coordinate and give you all the details, but are you good to cover all my scheduled tours while I’m on this research project?”

She sighs dramatically and replies, “You’re the only one who actually enjoys the tour guide thing, Rico. But I guess I can pick up the slack. Any of them want to exchange a tour for a destination photoshoot? Now that I can happily do.”

“Thanks, but you’ll really need to brush up on your Spanish colonial history and remember not to yell anything out in front of the governor’s mansion.”

She huffs. “What fun is that?”

Little sisters, mano .

“Mari, I gotta go. Abuela’s calling. Thanks again.” I catch her long-suffering groan before the call disconnects.

I answer Abuela, but, before I get a greeting in, I hear: “Rico, mi amor.”

Oh, this is never good. Might as well get right to it.

I mimic her syrupy tone. “What is it you need from me, mi amor ?”

She tsks because she knows I’m on to her. “Ay, I’ll make you your favorite flan, but can you help out Socorro with her chickens? She’s about to leave on a cruise with her daughter, and she needs to take them to her chicken-sitter friend. You know Socorro’s such a great neighbor. I’m sure she’ll throw in some empanadillas .”

I sigh. Of all the random requests—kind of like the clucking I hear from my very urban-setting bedroom window all the time. But we both know I could never say no to Abuela or her flan.

“Fine, make it a flancocho and tell Socorro to have those chickens ready. I have a pick-up to do at the airport, but I can swing it before.”

I hang up and swoop down just in time to avoid the wind sending another pigeon my way.